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About Avok

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  1. Avok carefully picks up the rolls of spice. He takes a moment to inspect them, concentrating so much so that he completely fails to take notice of Lorelyn tossing her own resources to him despite hearing her words. Idle-headed is the best way to describe Avok at times like these, but luckily it seemed Oridi's findings are enough for his purpose. "Kronos be with me..." the little Guinecean mutters to himself. The furry friend knows of this spice; how could he not when dealing with expensive wares on a daily basis? He knows it'll make things tricky. For a brief moment he rummages around and manages to find a rusted tin bowl which he places beside himself. He proceeds to get the melted ice - also known as water - out of the firepit of the tavern, collected long ago by Amaze and made possible to boil by Age stoking the flames. With both these items by his side, he takes a deep breath to mentally prepare himself for what he's about to do. Once parting prayers had been whispered by the fuzzball, Avok does what everyone knows you should not do: he unrolls an entire roll of spice and places it beneath his tongue. With his tongue, the Guinecean presses down on the potent mix, pressing what juices he can manage out of its being as he deliberately covers it in saliva in this process. This spice was sometimes used as rat poison, something Avok is all-too-aware of, and so he hopes he can extract the poisonous qualities from the spice using his own mouth, sparing those negative qualities from Oridi. After suckling on the dangerous spice for the longest time, he begins to feel light-headed - although he made sure never to swallow any of it - and takes this as his que to reach in and pull out the spice from his mouth again. He spits all of - what he hopes is poison - into the rusted tin bowl, before swiveling his mouth in the water from the kettle and spitting this out as well into the tin bowl. The Guinecean seems to take a moment to consider if he's dying or not; it doesn't seem entirely like so, but he's seeing stars, that much is for sure. Avok proceeds to repeat the process with all four rolls of spice - depressing each roll with his tongue, taking the paste out, spitting the poison. In the end there's only a large paste left of what should only be containing healing and soothing qualities. He pulls another bowl close, this one of wood, fills it with a little water and places all of the paste in there to allow it time to soak. What Avok did not account for - in doing this part of the healing first - is that he now feels dizzy and light-headed. He still isn't sure if he's near-death or near-ecstasy; time will tell. He starts cleaning his furred hands with water from the kettle, the only way he currently can, before taking a look at Oridi's wound. "It's deep. Bleeding suggests no artery has been severed. I'm not sure if any organs have been hit, but I doubt it; she probably would have been dead by now if that was the case." He speaks with a bit of a slurr to his voice, almost like a drunk, most likely an effect of the spices. Avok steels himself and reaches into Oridi's wound. There was no time for "sorry" or "excuse me" - he'd have to utter those pleasantries later. For now, the Fae is likely to depart from the realm of living if not given aid. Inside, he makes sure to feel for lumps or obstacles, something that might indicate the gore had hit anything but fat and tissue. He lets out a relieved breath after feeling around for a while - a search that was sure to be painful for Oridi - and then draws both hands out of her again. His hands were bloody, but that didn't matter much so long as nothing was infected. He has to hope this was the case. Usually you have to apply this kind of paste on the outer rims of a wound already closed, but given the severity and their lack of medical means, Avok has to make a somewhat bold decision. He picks up the wetted paste from the wooden bowl and dries it off to the best of his ability in his cloak and starts applying it liberally about 1 inch inside of her wound. The paste would have been enough for two people under normal circumstances but this wound is deep and extra measures have to be taken. Once Avok has applied it, he takes a shuddering breath. "She's not even close to being sedated yet - we have to give the paste time for that to come. That doesn't mean I don't have to close the wound though, so I'm gonna need a few of you to hold her down for this next part." the Guinecean bites his lower snout, waiting for two, perhaps three, to step up and do as he says before pulling out the dirk he found when first they came to the tavern, still with no leather-binding, but it would do for this purpose due to its small size. He cuts a small part of his cloak with it and pulls on the thread; it isn't long before Avok has gathered a sizeable amount of thread just from his cloak. Since he had no needle this next part was gonna be difficult, but manageable. He bends over Oridi's form and - without giving her or anyone else warning - punctures the skin flap next to her wound with great precision. The hole regretfully has to be large for him to be able to ever get a thread through without a needle, and as such Avok threads the string through the great hole - about half of the size of the fingernail on a human pinky - and punctures the skin for the next hole on the other side of the wound. He threads this hole as well and continue this way, cutting small holes on alternating sides of the wound and threading the string from his cloak through each hole. Luckily it seems his estimates are somewhat right, as the string manages to tighten up the wound to the point of closing, until finally the last hole had been threaded with the string and he loops the string around another of the holes again to tie a tiny knot. The wound looks closed and Avok looks tired. Undoubtedly the Guinecean's small hands had been a help in managing this feat of surgery. He sheathes the dirk back in his cloak and looks Oridi over, but before he can give any kind of verdict, the poor Guinecean passes out again, landing smackdab on his bum and rolls onto his back. It seems the spice's hallogenic qualities had been too much for him after all. (( Lots of edits: I inevitably made a lot of mistakes writing this large piece, so if you read it before my edits and thought "Damn...", please know that I tried to rectify the issue, if only a little! ))
  2. Avok steps up from his own little spot at the wall, approaching the scene slowly unfolding around Oridi. He grimaces for a moment once he pushes past those crowding around her, inspecting the state of her body. "Do we have something lying around - a means to heal her wounds?" - Avok might be referring to something along the lines of "Resources" - four of them, to be exact. Or two for a healing session worth one hit point.
  3. Avok sits quietly in his own corner. The humming stops and he occupies himself with idly brushing his cloak free of leftover sludge. Amaze briefly catches his attention when adressing him, but once the other Guinecean bolts outside, Avok returns his attention to his cloak. He feels around for any of his treasures missing just in case, though none had been taken nor fallen out of his deep pockets. He looks up to regard those who surround him. Perhaps time would soon come when he would have to trust all of them. After all, it is remarkable how everyone has come together without skipping a beat to ensure eachother's survival. His estimate had put the group's dissolving at a mere twelve hours, yet no such thing has even come close to happening. (( OOC: What door? ;o ))
  4. Avok settles down against a groaning wall inside of the tavern, relaxing from all the hustle and bustle. Things are going swimmingly from his perspective, and so he plans to keep it that way. He didn't have much in the way of resources compared to some others, he figured, so for now, healing someone else with his own would be out of the question. He still harbored distrust to a certain degree, a healthy dose of it. The furred enigma closes his eyes and starts humming; soon the honeyed tones echo the immediate area. It is a melody not of triumph, not of tribulations nor troubling treasures tucked away through tempting tombs. You don't feel ready for adventure, nor does it invoke aversion towards such travels. No roaring dragons, no steaming romances can be heard in this little Guinecean's hum. No, it is a tune celebrating home; not his home nor that of the average Guinecean. It tells tales of everyone's home. From Elves to commonfolk; Fae to Dryads and furfriends to Humans. Avok loses himself in humming, at this point he's being loud and obnoxious enough with it that most of those around him could hear. Images of the hearth, the family gathered around the table, your first hunt with whatever parent might have taught you, even images of your spouse, waiting by door to welcome you home from whatever travels you've been on. These fantasies and more are the essence of his melody, and it is what the little Guinecean thinks of while humming, yet you feel there must be a voice within the notes. A song. And you're right; Avok knows the lyrics to his own song by heart, but rarely dares singing. For now, the fuzzball's tail swings between his legs in rhythm to his current pasttime, looking serene.
  5. (( I'm gonna hold out with posting until we know whether Lorelyn fires or not, just for the record. ))
  6. Avok watches the fiery spectacle with some admiration. Though his admiration only stretches so far once he realizes the Gods-damned door was blown off its hinges. Upon Infynis' request, he does nod slowly, more out of confirmation that yes, he can indeed heal him, rather than whether or not he is willing to. His brow furrows as he pinches it in thought - something that only reminds him of the confessor's now-lacking brows. "I will be honest with you. I would have hoped for finding more medicinal aid right now than what I really have. If I tend to you now, we might later be faced with someone who becomes injured in more grave manner than yours - that is not to say yours is insignificant - which leaves us short of supplies that are already in scarcity. To put my answer simple: I will take a look at you if we find the surplus to treat such wounds. For now, I will hold out only for those in need to the point of death slowly embracing them." The Guinecean looks apologetic, but genuine in word for what that's worth. For a moment he swears he can feel the aura of someone ready to challenge to a duel, and he wonders if they were discovered by Hungerbeasts. He perks his ears and looks around, ending the conversation abruptly; are they being watched? He wasn't sure, but his hand slowly dove underneath his cloak nevertheless, clutching his blade while waiting.
  7. As his kinsman helps Avok with getting both supplies and himself up from the cellar, he cannot help but smile towards the others - something he has done sparingly since arriving on this planet to participate in the war. He begins dusting himself off only to realize the futility; his clothes paid a grave price for the goods that he collected, yet he knows this was a risk he had to take. He watches Amaze do his thing, and a very Guinecean thing to do it was. But first to adress the confessor who, by all means seemed like one of few trustworthy people here. Not to discredit the other party members, Avok simply just felt... something. An aura of sorts permeated the air around the confessor - peculiar. "I believe I heard on shouts carried by the wind into my little cellar that your name was Infynis Shalmoore. Now I believe since we're stuck in this mess together for some time, we might as well cut straight to the first names." Avok approaches the confessor and extends his furry albeit slimy hand. "My name is Avok, it's a pleasure to meet you Infynis. I should agree with your proposition; if we could get the cellar cleared out from all the muck and filth, that would be most pleasant. I anticipate you'll be nothing less than adored by the rest of our heroes skulking around when they find you're the one to have helped us rid of that awful stench." The word 'heroes' was spoken with a certain amount of sting and a slight bit of sarcasm. Avok was by no means mean-spirited. He was just what any Guinecean would call "skeptical to a healthy degree" about those of whom he was currently sharing his fate with. Once the two have exchanged words, perhaps or perhaps not resulting in the clearing of the basement, Avok dashed outside and into the snow. He was quite a silly sight to anyone catching him in the act, but his hand is forced; the fuzzball is rolling around in whatever bunks of snow he could find to catch the vile liquids on his clothes. It is crude, but probably the most effective method of cleaning himself to the point of being a bearable presence, and so he spends a good half hour "cleaning" himself in the snow. In the end, he doesn't look half bad; his cloak is stained, clearly, but the smell is sated to a certain point, and he probably still looks dashing enough to be standing at a storefront and presenting wares - not that he intends to at this moment. Most importantly he looks presentable, and thus he makes his way back inside to shift gear again. He joins his kinsman in cleaning up the tavern with the same gusto and energy that the other Guinecean is exerting. The Guinecean was willing to follow the other furry creature's instructions, and does so mostly without question should the request not be one he has cause to question; all in an attempt to make their tavern more homely and hopefully share a good meal with everyone else.
  8. Avok grimaces to himself. At this point the smell is becoming unbearable even to him, but he trudges on knowing that you reap what you sow, and Avok is out to reap the entirety of his farm if he could manage. Though after a moment, it dawns on: His damn springy legs don't mean anything when this abomination of sludge is keeping him firmly in its wretched grasp; he might be able to jump but most definitely not while carrying anything. He hears the confessor shout from above, happy to take solace in that he'd have at least one helping hand getting these supplies up. He doesn't respond though, neither does he even consider doing so when the other Guinecean speaks; Avok fears what it might do to him to heave in too much of this aroma, and speaking more means breathing more. The fuzzball jumps up to snatch the basket, the little critter needed a look before he was comfortable handing the entirety over to some stranger. Perishables and sustenance didn't matter to him. It was only fair that everyone chipped in to ensure all could eat, and he didn't intend on hiding those kind of resources from other's eyes. Rare commodities on the other hand; the kind you'd want to put at front row in a merchant's stall - that's what he was after. It doesn't take long for him to realize that he's hit a personal jackpot. The smoking pipe was just the kind of thing he was looking for, and so he pulled it out of the basket, pocketing it within his cloak along with the smoking leaf. He reads the note, something that draws a wide smile out of the furry merchant, and pockets it as well. The rest of the basket's contents - the mushrooms and bags of tea - he lets be in there before yelling upwards in hopes the others had not left yet. "Furry friend, I need help! There's two casks of wine along with a basket of supplies down here, would you be so kind as to receive them from the top? I can't much get up by myself as things stand."
  9. Avok merely inclines is head once more towards the fellow Guinecean. It's not that he didn't want to talk, he just thought it best not to open his mouth too wide after his little stunt; both because he had attempted something that most if not all of them would find mildly distrustful, but also because his wind was barely catching up for resources lost in his lungs after those few seconds of staring down death's gaping mouth. He did find solace in not being the only Guinecean there anymore. It meant that there was more than one capable person amongst the party, at the very least. Lorelyn's spat with the survivor would have made him suspicious of her if not for the fact that he found himself in agreement. While surely the survivor felt great grief, the comments were unneeded in a time where tempers could flare any minute and resources were scarce. Avok considers for a moment to make himself useful, though he has to be careful. He can not let the others think he is too capable, because that would make him a threat when the packpig dung hits the idiomatic fan. Capable people, however good their intentions, are always targeted first in do-or-die situations. The Guinecean finds that he is still staring into the smelly abyss; apparently the smell doesn't bother his kinsman too much either. Is it a racial trait? In any case, clearing out disgusting cellars probably wasn't considered too capable by anyone, and waiting for his kinsman to finish defrosting ice isn't too exciting of a prospect. With these thoughts, Avok pulls a handkerchief out of his cloakpocket and ties it as a mask around his snout. He is agile, and confident that leaping out of the relatively small room was going to be no problem should he need to do so alone. Telling no one, Avok jumps into the yeasty mixture on the very bottom of the room to start work. He dreads testing his luck with the Gods again, but perhaps the ominous jester would find it in his heart not to appear before his eyes like last. (( Black King ))
  10. Meanwhile, the stench, just as it had the previous night, wakes up Avok from his sudden, serene slumber. His eyes blink open and upon catching even half awareness, he recognizes the frisky odor immediately. "Boulders and brimstone, is this stench really going to be bothering me every single time in the very moment I put my eyes to rest? Who did this?!" The flummoxed Guinecean looks around; he sees the survivors, one dead and one grieving - or hiding from the smell. He gets to his furry feet once more and takes another look around. Maybe this time was his opportunity to escape unnoticed? Then again, his life had, at the very least, been saved by one of these so-called heroes; his honor - surprising as it may be that he had one - demands that he help them, if not for a week then at the very least until they were able to get by on their own without much trouble. Avok looks into the cellar after having approached it. He hears others about so he knows he's not alone with those useless survivors in the tavern. What's more is that the anomaly of a yeast colony trapped down in the cellar seems to evolve day by day somehow. He did not entirely know how the Hunger worked, but it wasn't out of the question if it could affect something as "alive" as a yeast colony; they needed to get rid of it soon or find a new place to spend their nights - something he deemed to be far harder than the first option. "Right then. Question is how we kill that thing down there." The fuzzball rubs his chin while staring down into the abyss that is the cellar.
  11. Avok remains sleeping and does not seem to notice his being adressed by Moira.
  12. Silent and unmoving, Avok is saved by none other than the dearest of Druids, Moira. His eyelids twitch and flutter open when finally his breath is caught back in his lungs. He takes a mental note to himself that there is now one trustworthy person among the crew at the very least. It's obvious the little fuzzball feels humiliated at the notion of being carried, but considering the circumstances he thinks better than to challenge fate by being a negative 'Necian. He answers without much side-thought upon Moira's question. "I was bounding out of here so that I might be alone from everyone else." Avok seems to either ignore the now-dead female survivor (has-been survivor, at least) or he simply doesn't notice her. He nods in acknowledgement at Amaze, though no words were spilled from his snout seeing as how the single sentence he just uttered was enough to wind him again. Stars flash in front of his vision and Avok's world starts on a veritable whirlwind, his visage veering from East to West in near-nauseating fashion as the rodent finds his kiss with death to be something a lot harder to handle than expected; certainly he wasn't able to shake the feeling of dread that had surrounded his very being from the experience. Without any further warning, as is usually the case with these kinds of incidents, Avok faints on the spot, though his unconsciousness shares more kinship with that of slumber than an outright coma, something evident by his silent snore.
  13. I guess someone expected the Guinecean inquisition. /cry
  14. Foiled by his impeccable sense of fashion, Avok curses his decision not to have folded his cloak properly so as to have avoided this exact situation. The little furball elicits straining gasps with each second that passes, trying in vain to reach up and save himself from this perilious situation. The Guinecean's vision starts to fade; everything becomes darker and shadows surround his peripheral vision, closing in on him with utmost patience. The Hunger waits, like death at his doorstep, ready to take Avok in and teach him exactly how unjust his so-called "Gods" are for allowing such unseeming deaths to occur to such a grand hero in this most ungraceful of ways. "Kro-..." is the only syllable the dying champion can exhale without straining to the point of asphyxiation. His limbs progress towards numbness at steady pace, pleasant memories of friends, family and times past streaming through his mind as a constant river of riveting reminiscence. The Guinecean becomes accustomed to the warmth leaving his body; slowly, he starts to accept the fact that help will not come for him today. Fate saw it fit to foresee his future happening this way. His hand had been dealt. The cards were on the table, and all Avok could see were grinning jesters, taunting him with the prospect of imminent death.
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